


Of Autumn and Apples

by EnduringParadox



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Cooking, Fluff, Food Porn, Grumpy Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier wants to pamper Geralt, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Slice of Life, Some Humor, They're not together yet but they're feeling it out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 06:54:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28541382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnduringParadox/pseuds/EnduringParadox
Summary: “I’ve seen many an autumn.”“And I bet you’ve grouched your way through each and every one. There’s so many things to enjoy. You can’t be bored during autumn. The leaves turning, acorns everywhere, the nice, chill breeze, making baked apples—““Baked apples?”----Jaskier decides to make some baked apples for Geralt. He just needs to get all the ingredients together.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 6
Kudos: 122





	Of Autumn and Apples

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elizabethgee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizabethgee/gifts).



> Based more off the Netflix series than anything else. Just a little gift for my friend elizabethgee!

The passing of the seasons was nature’s own familiar, comforting song, but autumn had always been Jaskier’s favorite. The invigorating chill in the air. The trees’ slow shift from summer’s verdant greens to red and yellow and orange. The leaves fluttering to the ground with an almost imperceptible rustle, and how they crunched underfoot.

Of course, he now had a slightly different perspective of autumn since setting out on his own. Too cold for mosquitoes, the horrid little things, but also too cold for a bard without any shelter for the night. One year— _ugh_ , it was difficult to think about, it was so dreadful—he’d been caught in a late season thunderstorm and nearly froze to death on the path. Although he would have made a very lovely ice statue. Admired far and wide, no doubt.

But, in Jaskier’s opinion, happy memories kept one warm in a different but no less important way. The thought of good that had passed and the hope for good yet to come. Like waiting for a friend to arrive for tea and a bit of gossip. And he had many good memories of autumn.

“Out with it,” Geralt said.

“Out with what?”

“When you’re not speaking, you’re thinking of something to say. And you’ve been quiet for far too long. So, out with it.”

Jaskier smiled and opened his arms wide, indicating the beautiful scenery around them. Nature’s bounty.

“Ah. Thinking of nothing. That explains the vacant look.”

He knew his companion well enough to know when he was teasing. Jaskier played along. With an overdramatic huff and his hands on his hips he scolded, “Geralt, how cruel! I’m enjoying the fine autumn weather and surroundings and I’m feeling very _content_ —but I know that’s an unfamiliar emotion for you, you great, sour-faced bore.” He waited a moment to watch Geralt’s expression. He could be quite a temperamental creature, Jaskier’s witcher, and he was always careful that his jokes and prodding did not offend.

But Geralt turned away so that Jaskier couldn’t see his smirk, and so he continued, “Surely even you must enjoy some of this sight-seeing, Geralt. It’s _autumn._ ”

“I’ve seen many an autumn.”

“And I bet you’ve grouched your way through each and every one. There’s so many things to enjoy. You can’t be bored during autumn. The leaves turning, acorns everywhere, the nice, chill breeze, making baked apples—“

“Baked apples?”

“Baked apples.” Jaskier blinked. “What, what’s wrong with baked apples? Don’t you like them?” There was only so much a friendship could take.

“I like them just fine,” Geralt replied.

Jaskier narrowed his eyes. “I’ve never seen you eat one.”

Geralt scowled. “When have I had the coin to waste on a baked apple?”

Utter blasphemy! “A _waste?_ ” He paused. Well, it was true—most of their coin went to lodgings and the last dregs of stew mopped up with day-old bread. “We could always make some,” Jaskier suggested.

A grumble worked its way out of the witcher’s chest. “Right. Sometime when we camp. Chop up some apples fine and fancy.”

It wasn’t a bad idea. Except— “You don’t _chop_ them, my dear, you scoop out the insides and fill it with all sorts of yummy things.” Currants and oats and nuts and brown sugar and honey. A treat for the both of them.

With a snort Geralt said, “You’ll be in charge of dessert, then.”

* * *

It took time to gather all the ingredients. Jaskier plucked three lovely bright red apples from a passing orchard and tucked them safely into his rucksack. The farmhand let him have his pick. Poor thing had been quite lonely and bored and Jaskier had cheered him with a song and some news and not a bit of gossip.

The oats had been a far more dangerous affair—he’d had to pilfer them from Roach’s feedbag while avoiding the creature's ire. Perhaps not the most hygienic, but, well, a touch of stray horse spittle was better than the gore that Geralt sometimes found himself covered in and which Jaskier had the misfortune of once seeing with his own two eyes drip into their cooking pot.

He’d debated over the nuts. When he was a child the cook had made him a variety of candies from almond, pecans, and walnuts. A quick roast in a pan with sugar and cinnamon, warm and crunchy, or thrown into a mixture of caramelized sugar and butter, sticky and sweet.

But it was far more difficult to find such luxuries on the road and in the hamlets they passed through. The sugar and cinnamon had to be bought—there was no getting over that, but Jaskier still got a lump in his throat as he watched the coin change hands—but he would be _damned_ if he paid hard-earned money for something that just fell off of trees. He just had to find the right trees.

He had his heart set on hazelnuts and scoured the countryside for them as they traveled, searching for just one tree with a bounty large enough for a few baked apples. When he finally spotted one Jaskier whooped for joy and immediately sprinted off to climb it, quick as a squirrel.

“Geralt, catch them!” Jaskier cried as he shook the branches. A rain of hazelnuts poured down on the witcher like so many strange little hailstones. They bounced off of Geralt’s armor with tiny clinks as he stared, impassively, at Jaskier.

“What are you _doing?_ ” he asked.

Jaskeir scrambled as gracefully down the tree as he could. “I am _trying_ to collect the _ingredients_ for out _baked apples_ , Geralt.” He knelt on the ground. “But now I’m busy separating _hazelnuts_ from _dirt clods_ because apparently _someone’s_ witcher reflexes don’t extend to _helping me_.”

“You’re still—planning that?” asked Geralt. To Jaskier’s surprise he crouched down beside him, gold-colored eyes boring into him. “Why?”

The pile of hazelnuts rattled in Jaskier’s arms. He replied, “Because I know how to make them. And because we deserve something nice. _You_ deserve something nice. So, I’ll make them.”

For a few moments Geralt said nothing. Not unexpectedly, he said, “ _Hm_ ,” but then, quite _un_ expectedly, he began to collect the rest of the hazelnuts in his large, broad hands. “As you will.”

Jaskier snorted. “Of course, as I will! I said I would!”

They ended up with a glut of hazelnuts, and so as they continued their journey Jaskier would press a handful into Geralt’s hands. The witcher cracked the shells with a light squeeze of his fist and dropped the contents back into Jaskier’s palms. He sifted through the broken shells for tasty little morsels, popping pieces of hazelnut into his mouth and offering the rest to Geralt. Every once in a while Jaskier presented a handful of shells and nuts to Roach who, to his delight, snuffled at his palm and carefully picked out the hazelnuts with her lips.

As she munched on her snack Jaskier laughed and said, “She sounds just like you when you eat, Geralt. Or perhaps it’s the other way around. You eat like a horse, my dear witcher.”

Said witcher gave him a scowl that might have been frightening if his mouth wasn’t full. Jaskier laughed anew.

* * *

The very last ingredient that he needed, the thing that would bring all the flavors together, was a drizzle of honey.

Which presented a bit of a problem, travel-wise.

Spices would be bought and kept in little sachets, hazelnuts were snug in their shells, the currants were already dried, the brown sugar formed into a small, packed cone and carefully wrapped, the oats he’d stolen from Roach’s feedbag tucked safely in a pouch and kept in his rucksack next to the apples.

But where to get honey? And, more importantly, where to put it?

“Won’t it be sweet enough without it?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier sniffed. “Perhaps. But then, it wouldn’t be _my_ baked apple recipe, would it? Just a pale imitation sans that lovely floral sweetness. Don’t worry, Geralt. The apples will keep. It’ll be worth it, you’ll see.”

His companion shrugged.

The problem solved itself. An endrega infestation in a village, snatching up crops and livestock and a few drunkards who’d had the bad luck to wander into their—fangs? Mandibles? Well, in any case they’d been eaten. And even with the human death toll the good people of the area still refused to let Geralt stay at the inn despite all of Jaskier’s attempts at cajoling.

“You know,” he told the headman with a tight smile, “It is a wonderful thing to be paid for one’s efforts in solving other people’s problems. Especially when you can actually _spend the coin_ for a _bed_ for the night.”

The man at least at the temerity to look embarrassed. “Forgive us. It’s just that—some of the others—they fear that a witcher might, er—”

“Sully that fine establishment?” Jaskier asked, archly, arms crossed, nodding at the inn that looked rather more like a barn. No surprise there. The town was full of _beasts_ if they’d hire Geralt to keep them safe but refuse him a place to rest his head. He clucked his tongue.

“Please, you must understand. They’re afraid,” the man said.

“Not so afraid as to not employ my friend and put his life in danger,” replied Jaskier.

Poor creature. The headman really did look apologetic. He was an honest person, at least, if lacking in spine. He asked, “Is there anything else I can do for you two? Without—upsetting anyone else?”

Jaskier frowned and tapped his foot on the ground. “Does anyone around here keep bees?”

“What?”

* * *

Three days later Geralt returned from his task covered in dried blood and goo and looking quite exhausted but, besides that, was no worse for wear—thank goodness.

Jaskier asked, lightly, “I take it the insectoid regicide is over?”

The witcher tossed him a few teeth—undoubtedly from an endrega queen by the sheer size—and a coin purse. “Job’s done. There’s the rest of the payment.”

Jaskier took the teeth between thumb and forefinger and wrinkled his nose. It was still attached to part of the jaw, _ugh_. “You always do such fine work, Geralt.” He set them down onto the grass. The coin purse he placed into their pack. “Well, my dear, as you can see I didn’t manage to persuade them to give us a room. But, I did get them to cough up something else. Look!” He presented a wooden bowl filled with a generous portion of honeycomb and thick, rich honey.

“It’s honey.”

“Indeed it is! Fresh from the hive! The headman was quite desperate for me to leave here happy—I don’t think he wanted a song written about some very ungracious villagers who put the White Wolf in danger but refused him hospitality. He asked if there was anything he could do for us, besides providing a bed—“

“And you asked for honey?”

“For the _baked apples_ , Geralt. I’ve finally got all the ingredients together. So wipe that gunk _and_ that scowl off your face and sit here with me. They should be nearly done.”

When he’d cleaned himself off enough that Jaskier was certain nothing appalling would drip into any foodstuffs he welcomed Geralt at his side. Most of the work was already done. He’d dug out the centers of the apples and fed them to Roach, who’d then watched with something like a glare as Jaskier mixed the stolen oats into a bowl with the currants, cinnamon, hazelnut pieces, and chunks of brown sugar and stuffed the apples until they were nearly overflowing with filling.

The delectable little things had sat in the pot over the fire, baking and browning and oozing syrupy, sugared juices as Jaskier happily tended to them. It had made him nostalgic, putting the apples together.

The head cook of his family’s home had been such a lovely woman. In his childhood there’d been few who’d understood his desire to move, to see, to do _something_ , and when his tutors grew frustrated he’d scamper down to the kitchens for a treat. There’d only been one rule: he could have whatever he wanted so long as he helped her make it.

And he’d always wanted something sweet. Sugared flower petals, biscuits with blackberry jam, gingerbread, pound cake with strawberries, custard tarts topped with fruit, pieces of fried dough rolled in sugar. All very delicious and all near impossible to make while traveling.

But baked apples—

They were delicious, simple, and cozy. The very best of autumn, all packed into a warm, spiced, nutty, sweet treat to be shared with his friend who most assuredly deserved something nice for all that he did for people. Even if they were often too dense to appreciate him.

As he spooned each apple into a bowl Geralt said, quietly, “These smell good.”

“Thank you, my dear. It’s my own recipe. A few handfuls of this, a few pinches of that, and, ta-da! Baked apples!”

“I didn’t know you could cook.”

“Don’t think I’ve been holding out on you, Geralt. Most of my culinary capabilities require an actual kitchen, or at least an oven. And more ingredients than stale bread and dried meat and ale.” Though that did make a fairly decent stew. “I may be extraordinarily talented but alas, I can’t work miracles.”

His companion huffed a laugh. “I just meant—well, thank you.”

Warmth and trepidation bubbled up in Jaskier’s chest. “Thank me after you’ve had a bite to eat. Here.” He handed Geralt a bowl and drizzled a spoonful of honey over the baked apple.

Cooking was a performance in itself. Jaskier waited with bated breath as Geralt examined the steaming baked apple. His nostrils flared as he gave it a few careful sniffs. Then he took a spoon and dug in.

The apple was baked to perfection. The spoon went through its tender flesh like a knife through butter. He was pleased to see that Geralt had scooped up a balanced mixture of warm apple and crunchy oats and hazelnuts and plump currants, all coated with melted brown sugar and cinnamon and juices from the apple and fresh honey.

It smelled lovely, at least to Jaskier’s nose. But then, Geralt had a more sensitive sense of smell—perhaps he’d used too much cinnamon? Or made it too sweet? Ah, foolish, he should’ve waited for Geralt to try it plain before he added the honey. He was about to smack the spoon right out of the witcher’s hands when his friend took a bite.

“It’s good, Jaskier,” Geralt said around a mouthful of baked apple.

“Well, I knew you’d like it,” Jaskier said with a wave of his hand as if he hadn't been ready to toss the whole lot of it into the dirt at the first sign of disapproval, “Enjoy, Geralt.”

He took a bite of his own baked apple and hummed. It tasted quite a bit more delicious knowing that it had his friend’s approval. A bit of warm, errant honey slid its way down his spoon and onto his hands. “Ah, I forgot how messy it could be eating these.” As he licked his fingers clean he noticed Geralt’s hungry stare. “There’s another apple if you want it. I don’t mind.”

Geralt’s golden eyes flitted to the pot back to Jaskier’s face. “We could share it.”

Jaskier smiled. “Oh! That’s very generous of you. That’ll go with your bravery, strength, and cleverness. You’ve so many heroic virtues, my dear—the songs practically write themselves.”

“Hurry up, before I change my mind,” Geralt snapped. He always grew flustered when complimented and so of course Jaskier made certain to compliment him as often as possible. His poor witcher had not gotten nearly enough praise in his life and there was a lot of time and adulation to make up for.

They split the apple. Geralt seemed to have taken a great deal more of the filling but Jaskier chose to let it slide this time. A little indulgence never hurt anyone.

They ate and watched the stars that dotted the sky. The fire was warm and crackled merrily.

Fine food, finer company.

A perfect autumn night.


End file.
